


Give me what I want (or I'll give it to myself)

by silvervelour



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race (US) RPF
Genre: F/F, Photographer Mik, Rockstar Rosé, hookup to lovers???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29684415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvervelour/pseuds/silvervelour
Summary: Because there’s something in Rosé’s performance that has Mik feeling like she’s discovered a muse of sorts. Yes she can sing and yes she can move, and Mik guesses that her outfit is also pretty fire too, but there’s still something else. Mik knows it probably has something to do with the cheek of her smiles and the spirit which she embodies, though that’s something she’s going to get the pleasure of unpacking when she uploads the images to her mac; she can imagine the folder already, just titled Rosé.For now, she simply looks, and presses the button over and over and over again until damn, she thinks -These ones are going to look fantastic on her instagram feed.*Rockstar Rosé and photographer Mik
Relationships: Gottmik/Rosé (Drag Race)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	Give me what I want (or I'll give it to myself)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi pals and gals!! So, I saw the kiss video a month or so ago, started writing this moment, and am now sharing it! Gottrose is the MOMENT and I love them, I hope y'all enjoy!! 
> 
> Feel free to let me know your thoughts babies!

If Mik was going to go to a concert on a scorching night in the middle of July, her first choice would not be _The Dolls._

When she thinks of them, she thinks of a pop-rock hybrid that she’d rather give a miss. She imagines hoards of baby dykes with their dyed hair pressed together in the crowds, and the last thing she wants is to be sweatily avoiding them in the near hundred degree heat. Mik could think of better things, namely sitting at home in her apartment and binge watching Netflix with a pint of vegan chocolate ice cream, but her roommate Symone has other ideas. It’s not gorg and it’s not fun, but _whatever_. 

“Baby girllll-”. Symone prods her side, already dressed head to toe in a confident smirk.

“-Come onnn, Gigi got a girlfriend and got boring and I need some company!”. She pouts. 

_I’d literally rather die,_ Mik thinks, but she doesn’t vocalise it. She gives Symone a lighthearted eye roll instead, and digs her spoon further into her ice cream. There are stains of it around her mouth, evidence of a less than thrilling evening, but Symone has seen her hanging out of her ass during three day hangovers so she doesn’t care, not really. She’s comfortable in her high waisted panties and sports bra, a thin blanket thrown over her legs. 

Their apartment isn’t air conditioned but they do have the windows wide open, and at this point Mik will take any small fucking mercies that she’s able to get. Not even throwing her long black hair up in a ponytail has helped, and the undercut that she freshly shaves every month or so still somehow manages to feel too long even if it prickles at her fingers when she touches it. 

“Angel-”. Mik licks her lips. 

Symone has her eyebrows raised in hope, foot tapping against the floor in anticipation. 

“-Are you tellin’ me _I’m_ the second choice?”. She drawls. 

It doesn’t make sense with Mik’s fantasy to be anyone's second choice - not in her Leo bubble thank you very much - but especially not her fave girl _Symone’s_ second choice. She tries not to huff about it, but she’s never had a very good poker face. What she feels, shows, and hiding that seems kind of pointless. _Maybe if I say nothing she’ll just give up and ask someone else,_ Mik muses, even as Symone keeps looking at her expectantly. She could ask Olivia or Denali, or maybe even Utica, because surely one of them would be down? 

Apparently not. 

“Bring your camera, it’ll be fun!”. Symone promises. 

And it’s a good job that Mik loves her, because despite groaning and rolling her eyes dramatically, she does eventually agree. She sets her tub of ice cream aside - not that there’s much left of it - and then slumps into the cushions of the couch. She then sits back up just as quickly, and gives Symone the answer that she’s been seeking. It’ll be alright, Mik hopes. She can get some funky pictures of the lighting, maybe capture interesting individuals in the crowd. There’s also the promise of a grimy bar that Mik can get her life from, and if she’s honest with herself; that’s what convinces her. 

“Ughhh, fineeee!”. 

*****

Rosé applies her lipstick in her dressing room mirror, and complains about being perpetually single while she does so. 

It’s their first show in LA - _ever_ \- and she feels hellishly alone in the room full of couples. Izzy the bassist and Lagoona the drummer have paired off because they’ve been fucking for as long as Rosé is able to remember, and Jan their guitarist has been giving their manager Jackie heart eyes since they were first signed to their current label. Rosé wants to hate it, wants to be forever bitter at the fact that the closest thing she’s had to a makeout in months is when she face planted the stage at their gig in Chicago the other day. Despite her best efforts, however, she can’t quite muster those levels of petty, though she can _definitely_ feel them building. 

“Y’all-”. Rosé sighs, fingers arranging her red curls.

Jan looks up from where she’s sat on Jackie’s lap on the sofa, and Izzy and Lagoona turn to her with furrowed eyebrows that interrupt their giggles. 

“-I need a damn girlfriend”. She grumbles. 

The girls are more than used to her incessant complaining by now - if they weren’t, Rosé would be worried - but she still pouts when they all groan in unison. Izzy’s groan says it all, as does the way Jan tries to offer her an encouraging smile. Lagoona stays neutral for the most part until Rosé huffs again, and then she signals for Izzy to _please say something._ Out of all of them Izzy is probably the one with the loosest tongue and the fastest flowing wit, and most of the time it makes Rosé feel at least a tiny bit better. She’s sure that Jan and Lagoona could raise several points too, and probably even Jackie but - _yeah_ , Izzy. 

“Girlie-”. Izzy snorts. 

“-You don’t need a girlfriend, you need to get fucked. Or fuck someone. Or both, cause like, vers rights and whatever”. 

Rosé makes eye contact with herself in the mirror, and then snorts at the sight of her dramatic frown. She straightens it out with a flick of her eyebrow spoolie, and a stern _get the fuck together, Rosé._ It’s a recurring conversation that all of them seem to have, where Rosé says she wants a girlfriend and the rest of the girls mock her for it lovingly. It’s not their fault that she’s been pining to the nth degree for months, yearning at a level which she knows is extreme. Being surrounded by loved up couples - albeit sometimes _messily_ loved up - doesn’t help either, especially not when she’s locked up on a tour bus with them for weeks on end. 

Most of the time, Jan and Jackie keep themselves to themselves in one of their bunks, but when they don’t they really don’t. Rosé has walked in on them making out on more than one occasion, sprawled out across the travelling living room couches wearing only oversized shirts and guilty smiles. They always make themselves scarce quickly, but Izzy and Lagoona have never shared the same talent. Rosé has heard moans pouring from barely closed dressing room doors, has seen more than she ever bargained for from both of them. 

Once, Izzy had even proposed that Rosé join them, but that’s firstly chaotic as fuck and secondly not the vibe she’s going for. She’s taken part in drunken kisses with the both of them throughout the years that they’ve all known each other, and it’s not something she’s keen to take further, thank you very much. 

Despite this, Rosé is a dumb bitch at heart, and she’s never going to be able to resist cracking a joke even if it doesn’t land. 

“Are you offering?”. She grins up at Izzy. 

And if looks could kill, Rosé thinks she would’ve dropped dead on the spot. Izzy shoots her a look that makes Rosé bark out a laugh, and she faintly registers Jan and Lagoona groaning once more in the background. Rosé knows she’s insufferable on her best days, and doesn’t try to downplay the fact. She waits for a response that in the end doesn’t come, but can see it’s not for lack of trying on Izzy’s part. Her lips are parting with words that dissolve on her tongue when the stagehand cuts her off with a five minute warning call, and suddenly none of it matters.

Rosé pushes herself out of her seat, and piles into their routine group hug in the centre of the room. 

“Showtime, fuckers!”.

*****

Almost as soon as they arrive at the venue, Mik loses Symone to the crowd. 

It’s not unexpected, because Symone is like that. She entangles easily with whatever threads she’s thrown in with, a feat which Mik is still learning. Symone scatters herself like glitter, and the lights reflect off of the presence that she leaves behind with a sparkling ease. Mik watches her flit between the bar and a group of gays wearing next to nothing, and they only cross paths when Symone shoves a strawberry cider in a clear plastic cup into her hands. She tells Mik to let loose, promises that she’ll have fun, but Mik’s barely able to hear her over the sound of the support act. 

They’re a duo that she’s never heard of - Tayce and Aurora - but that doesn’t mean that Mik doesn’t enjoy them. Together they sound melodic, a combination of pop and rock that Mik hadn’t been expecting. They dance around the stage and against each other, black latex on white leather and joking smears of red and pink lipstick on cheeks. Mik enjoys the blatant display of queerness for what it is, and even picks up the camera that hangs from her neck to document a few of her favourite moments. 

_Arms wrapped around waists._

_The red lights merging with the timber ceiling._

_A crowd that slowly envelopes her._

They leave the stage with blazing _thank you’s_ , spoken in accents that Mik thinks are British, or maybe Australian. She cheers along with those that surround her when the music begins to fade out, and uses the time to begin slowly elbowing her way to the front of the crowd. Even in her platform docs she still isn’t that tall and it’s something that she absolutely uses to her advantage. It’s like parting the red sea of dykes, each wave screaming _dolls dolls dolls._ Mik knows that it’s the name of the headline act that are due on next, but it still makes her laugh. Like, seriously, what kind of group call themselves _The Dolls?_

Well _they_ do, apparently. 

Mik is close enough to the barrier that she’s able to see each member without squinting too hard through her contact lenses. The lights have shifted to a deep red, save for the four spotlights that are spaced out across the stage. Each one holds a different pivoting figure, and Mik lifts her camera as they begin introducing themselves. There’s a heartbeat of drums, a pulse of the bass guitar, but Mik finds herself being captivated by the tender strum of delicately rich vocals. 

Izzy, with fingers plucking the strings of her bass guitar, introduces herself as a dyke lover. Fittingly, she’s wearing a _Lover_ by Taylor Swift shirt, and has scrawled the word dyke above it in bright red marker. She looks fucking cool, Mik thinks, with her leather trousers and black ankle boots, all topped off with a chaotic mane of blonde waves. She’s the type of gal Mik could be friends with, one that would probably get her white girl wasted at three o’clock on a weird Wednesday afternoon. 

There’s the drummer then - Lagoona - beaming from behind her cymbals and crashing up a theatrical storm. She’s creating an atmosphere all by herself, and looks ecstatic to be doing so. Her blue hair is as wavy as Izzy’s is, and her ripped off the shoulder shirt pairs so well with her fishnets and high waisted denim shorts that Mik can’t help but be impressed. Maybe Symone _did_ have a point when she said Mik would have fun, because this sure isn’t as bad as she thought it would be. 

The lilac one's name is Jan. She’s all blonde hair with the underneath dyed lavender pulled back into a scrunchie, pastel purple docs and an amethyst guitar. By the looks of things she’s tie dyed one of their merch t-shirts, and is wearing it as an oversized dress. Every now and then she pokes her tongue out between her teeth, grins wickedly towards the audience, and ok - these girls are an entire time. 

And Mik is kind of obsessed with it. 

She keeps snapping pictures as their introductions go on, but her thumb hovers over the shutter button for a second longer when _Rosé_ appears.

_Curly red hair._

_Short tartan skirt._

_Boxy cropped tee._

During the opening chords of _Gimme What I Want_ she mimes a dramatic air guitar, and Mik snorts out a laugh that catches in the back of her throat. She performs with an undeniable energy from the get go, chunky black docs clomping across the stage and skirt rising whenever she jumps or kicks her legs a little too hard. Her hair moves with her in ringlets of lava, and they scorch through the viewfinder of Mik’s camera, into her eyes where they stay for the remainder of the night. 

She’s the one that Mik focuses most, if not all of her attention on. There’s something about her that just pulls the eye of the camera her way, towards the ridiculousness that is her stage presence. She talks to the crowd between songs, flaunts her riffs and raucous chuckles. Through the pixels of the camera Mik is able to see beads of sweat forming on her forehead, and Rosé makes a point of pouring what’s left of her bottle of water over herself. She screeches that _tomorrow is washday, whatever_ into the mic, and Mik is strangely endeared by the chaos of it all. 

There’s also a bottle of wine sat on the stage that she periodically shares with Izzy. Rosé swigs from it, makes a joke about doing everything in moderation, and then passes the bottle of red back. Jan laughs while she continues playing chords every now and then, and Mik captures one hilarious shot of Lagoona’s eyes rolling in response to the antics. She knows she’s going to have fun editing this unexpected bunch, and she makes a mental note to thank Symone for making her her second choice when she next sees her. 

Mik doesn’t know whether it will be at the end of the gig or if it’ll be the next morning over a breakfast of leftover chinese food, but either way, she _will_ thank her. 

Because there’s something in Rosé’s performance that has Mik feeling like she’s discovered a muse of sorts. Yes she can sing and yes she can move, and Mik guesses that her outfit is also pretty fire too, but there’s still something else. Mik knows it probably has something to do with the cheek of her smiles and the spirit which she embodies, though that’s something she’s going to get the pleasure of unpacking when she uploads the images to her mac; she can imagine the folder already, just titled _Rosé_.

For now, she simply looks, and presses the button over and over and over again until damn, she thinks -

These ones are going to look _fantastic_ on her instagram feed. 

*****

The day after every show, Rosé makes a point of flicking through all of her tagged stories on instagram. 

It’s been a ritual for hers for years now. She replies hearts to as many as she’s able to, and even comments on the ones that really catch her eye. The fans are as adoring as they are crazy with their art and their screaming words, but Rosé wouldn’t be without them, just like the other dolls wouldn’t. She talks to Jan about it as they check the fallout from last night's show in LA, and they coo collectively over standout posts and loving messages. There’s one specific picture of the four of them, arms linked and huddled together at the end of the show. They both repost it with sparkling gifs of hearts, and make sure to send it to Lagoona and Izzy so they can do the same. 

Rosé keeps scrolling, and sinks further into the questionably comfortable tour bus couch. She has her knees pulled to her chest, her chin resting on them, and the world outside of the windows whizzes past as quickly as her thumb taps at the screen of her phone. They’re travelling to a restaurant that’s no more than half an hour away for lunch with their management - otherwise known as just Jackie and Chelsea - but hell if Rosé isn’t going to spend that journey being comfortable. If Izzy and Lagoona are still asleep in their bunks, then it’s the least she deserves. 

With her messy hair piled high on her head, and her body still dressed in comfy shorts and an old tank top, Rosé stops on one particular picture. She’s seen it pop up a few times in her flip through the numerous stories, but this time she pays it more attention. It’s a picture of just herself, bottle of wine held clumsily in her hand. Her mic is still grasped tightly in the other, and Rosé prides herself on not being a _complete_ disaster. She’s also smiling, widely, and the edit of the picture makes Rosé’s face unwittingly mirror it. The red of her hair melts into the burgundy of the spotlights, and the pattern of her tartan skirt matches the lines that have been carved into the wood of the ceiling. 

It’s a good picture. 

A really good picture. 

And Rosé _needs_ to know who took it. 

It doesn’t take long for her to find out, not when she has the reach of her personal account and The Dolls account. Her DM’s are flooded with responses and Rosé clicks through them, quickly gathering that _@mikgottlieb_ is the one responsible for the shot. Her page is full of similar content - grungy colour schemes, gritty portraits - and Rosé speedily seeks out her newest post which she’s captioned with _Gag, and I cannot stress this enough, atrondra at The Dolls last night!_ _🔪🔪🔪_

“Hey, Jan, look at this shit”. Rosé grins, linking Jan to the post.

She waits for Jan to look at it, arches an expectant eyebrow in her direction.

Jan looks back at her with a similar expression and Rosé has to bite at the insides of her cheeks to stop herself from laughing. 

“Did you just send me a post full of pictures of _just_ you?”. Jan gapes, waving her phone frantically in front of her. 

“I meaaaaan-”. Rosé smirks. 

“-There’s a group shot towards the end?”. She offers. 

So maybe Rosé is biased. But only a little. All four of them have been tagged in the pictures, and it’s a sentiment that Rosé appreciates even if true to Jan’s word, nine out of ten of them are of just her. Rosé can’t blame the photographer for it, not when she knows that she looked fucking killer for last nights show. The stems of her legs had stretched on forever in the soil of her docs, and she’d bloomed across the stage in practiced riffs and perfected movements. She’s hot and she knows it - humbly, of course - and she’s not above admitting it. 

“They’re good photos, I guess?”. Jan scrutinises. 

She’s frowning at the screen, zooming in and out. 

“Good? These are _insane_ ”. Rosé marvels. 

“Doll, you just think that cause they’re all of you”. 

Jan’s eyes narrow, and though she has a point, Rosé also knows it’s not entirely the case. Because Rosé and the group have had shoots in a stupid amount of countries with more photographers than she’s able to remember, but none have managed to capture the essence of a _Dolls_ performance as effortlessly as this _Mik_ has. Looking at the pictures feel like she’s watching the whole gig from start to finish in the blink of an eye, and some of them even have her knuckle tattoos perfectly in focus; a bold _28_ on the fingers wrapped around her mic. 

“Whatever-”. Rosé sighs. 

“-I’m kinda obsessed with them”. 

She starts typing out a comment then, because as much as Rosé does love the pictures she’s never been one to send the first DM. She’s not about to start now either, not when this Mik is _hot_ judging by the profile picture of the account, and occasional selfie that she’s posted to her feed. _I wouldn’t say no,_ Rosé muses. She thinks someone would have to be delusional to say no to the long black hair, bangs and cheekbones that look like they could cut a bitch. That’s a dyke if Rosé has ever seen one, and she likes to think she’s well versed - full pun intended - within that field. 

**@omgheyrose** : _Love love these u fuckin bitch!!! Would love to work w u sometime_ _💖💖💖_

And that’s the last thought that Rosé gives it until later that night, when she’s tucked back into her bunk and Izzy is snoring across the hallway. 

She’s scrolling through instagram, liking a set of pictures that Jan had posted earlier in the day. The first one is of herself and Jackie with Jackie’s lips pressed to her cheek, and the second is of a bunch of flowers that Jackie had brought her after their meeting during the day. Part of Rosé wants to gag at it, but the other is just yearning for something that’s even close to what they have. She double taps the picture and then comments a bunch of pink sparkly hearts, but then she’s distracted by the notification that starts with _@mikgottlieb._

A DM. 

A DM from Mik. 

Photographer Mik. 

**@mikgottlieb**

_Hey gorg! Saw your sweet comment, how long ya in LA for?_ _🔪_

Strange choice of emojis but ok, sure, Rosé chuckles to herself. She’s definitely received weirder messages from glaringly creepy accounts, so she decides to take the tiny digital knives as an eccentricity rather than a threat. _Is she talking about The Dolls? Is she talking about just me?_ Rosé doesn’t know. All that she does know is she has at least another three days in the city, and if Mik is offering then she’s going to take advantage of that time because why the hell not. 

**@omgheyrose**

_Here until Wednesday, what u thinkin? U got ideas?_ _👀_

This time Rosé only has to wait a couple of minutes for a response, and boy is it an _idea_. 

One that she pretty much immediately agrees to. 

**@mikgottlieb**

_I have a private studio, full shoot on me if you can make it tomorrow_ _🔪🤍_

*****

Mik asks and then Rosé says yes. 

And in between, Mik tries not to be too smug about it. 

She sets up the studio space on the morning of the shoot, basic lighting and an environment that she hopes will be welcoming. The building that she rents is more reminiscent of an old warehouse than it is anything else, but it’s what’s shaped her rugged signature style. The corrugated metal walls make backgrounds of artificial tree bark, and the concrete floors are futuristic forest beds. With the soft box lights comes the sunlight that the boarded up windows block out, and the cables that trail across the space feel like vines that connect inspiration to outcome. 

Mik also keeps an array of furniture, odd bits and bobs that she’s either thrifted or been gifted by brands and clients that have worked with her. She has the classic chairs and stools, coloured backdrops and props that make her giggle like beach balls, candelabras and party poppers. One of Mik’s favourite things however is a vintage Chesterfield sofa, and she may or may not have positioned it in the centre of the room with the idea of Rosé sprawled across it at the forefront of her mind. For the pictures. _Duh_. 

They arrange to meet at two, but Rosé doesn’t show up until half past which is just classic diva behaviour, Mik has come to understand. It’s not the worst late show up that she’s ever experienced, not by a long shot. When Mik had first dipped her toes into the waters of freelance photography she’d had an up and coming pop star show up over three hours late, but she’s been assertive enough to not let that happen since. She’d sent him away from the studio sans his expected pictures but with a stern word; _don’t mess creators around.  
_

Because it’s taken a while for Mik to get to this point. She’s forever been undermined by others in her field, trodden on by men and diminished for her identity as a trans woman. They don’t get _her_ , have never understood the _femme_ that she exudes, and it’s meant that she’s had to deal with clients that want nothing more than to make her aware of that.

With Rosé though, it’s a little different. 

And by a little, Mik means a lot.

She stumbles through the double fire exit doors with apology after apology, hair getting caught in her lipstick and chunky boots clacking against the concrete. Her shoulder is stacked with tote bags that are overflowing with what Mik presumes are outfit changes, and the gracious smile never once leaves her face. She strides across the room with the same confidence that Mik recognises from on-stage Rosé, but there’s a distinct kind of unkempt gangliness about her too. She almost trips over the wires on the floor, and has Mik pressing her lips together to stop herself from laughing. 

“Hi! _Fuck_ , hi hello! Shit, I’m sorry I’m so late, Izzy and Goona were having a fuckin _time_ on the bus and then there was this whole thing cause Jan was sad that Jackie wouldn’t be coming to Vegas with us and-”. 

Rosé stops in front of her, wide eyed and breathless. 

“-Wow, you did not need to know that”. She deadpans. 

She drops her tote bags on the floor next to the sofa, and one of them lands with a thud. With her fingers she tries to tame her hair, but her curls only grow wilder the more that she touches them. They’re flaxen flames, blazing under the lights of the softboxes, and this time Mik can’t help but chuckle at the sight. She lets her eyes crinkle at the corners, and Rosé doesn’t seem too offended by it if Mik’s reading her correctly. Her eyebrows arch and her tongue pokes out between her teeth, and Mik would have jumped to capture that sight with her camera if it was within reach. 

“That’s dyke drama, huh gorg?”. Mik tries. 

Her tentativeness is met with a cackle. 

_Ice: broken._

“You get me-”. Rosé winks. 

And then she reaches out to shake Mik’s hand. 

“-I’m Rosé”. 

Her words hang in the air, suspended above them with the handful of spotlights that dangle from the ceiling. They glare down at them with a yellow tinted white, one that burns Mik’s eyes just a little even after all these years. It makes the rings that decorate Rosé’s hands glint with each tiny movement, and Mik mixes her own gold with Rosé’s silver when she meets her handshake half way. It’s not formal, isn’t professional in any shape or form, but it does allow Mik to understand Rosé a little more. 

In Mik’s experience, a firm handshake has never been anything but a good sign. 

“I guessed-”. Mik smirks. 

She takes a step closer then, and squeezes Rosé’s hand that little bit tighter. 

“-Mik”. She states, head tilting to the side. 

Because Rosé regards her carefully, and gives Mik’s studio as thorough of a once over as she does Mik herself. Her eyes are like little pinwheel knives that scratch Mik wherever they land, ones that burn in that way that she shouldn’t like but enjoys regardless. It’s why she encourages Rosé with her blatant smile, and only takes a step back when Rosé clears her throat. She licks across her lips and then looks down at Mik with a low chuckle, curls bouncing as she does so. 

_Their height difference? Kind of hot._

“Nice to meet you”.

*****

They’re going to fuck. 

They _have_ to fuck, right?

There’s an unmistakable tension between them, and Rosé might not have pulled as many hookups as she would have liked on this tour so far, but she’s not stupid. At least not when it comes to women. She’s fluent in body language and speaks sexuality as if it’s something she’s always effortlessly had, not something she’s had to learn. Rosé knows how to move each muscle whether it’s for the camera or the private eye, and with Mik she just happens to think it will be both. 

The camera looks at her, but Mik sees her. It’s a little jarring - they’ve only just met, Rosé feels drunk with it - but she’s unable to look away from the harsh flashes, the lens that stares her dead in the eye. Mik navigates the studio space easily, tip toeing the obstacle course of wires and lights, cables that encircle them. Rosé marvels at her control over the camera, her hands that wrap delicately around it. There’s a strength there too in each press of the shutter button, how her short black painted nails clack against the hard plastic. She can’t look away from her even as she gives Rosé a slew of instructions; move this way, that way, _do_ _this just for me._

“Can you kneel on the couch? Maybe spread your legs a little?”. Mik drawls. 

Rosé would be lying through her teeth if she said the words didn’t make her draw in a slow breath, and then huff out a disbelieving laugh. What she says is so simple - _spread your legs a little_ \- but they’re enough to remind Rosé of how stupidly incessantly horny she’s been for days, weeks, maybe even longer. Sure, a girlfriend would be lovely right about now, but if she’s able to bag a bed - or this uncomfortable couch - with Mik the hot dykey photographer then she will absolutely take it. 

So, she pushes things in that direction. 

“Ooo, buy me a drink first”. She winks, in a tone that she hopes conveys that she’s joking. 

_Mostly._

“I have beer in my office”. Mik states, her eyes gazing over one of the camera tripods. 

She says it so neutrally, so blasé that at first Rosé doesn’t really register what she means. A beer - casual, friendly, just a beverage to get them by. A _drink_ \- not so casual, a little more than friendly, a beverage to pretty much get them fucked, or fucking. 

Rosé stops posing to digest her words properly. She thinks about them, and then about what they could bring, and ultimately decides that yes, beer would be good. She gives Mik the go ahead in the form of a nod, and Mik sets the camera down claiming that they’ve already got enough shots to work with. Rosé doesn’t doubt her because they’ve been working for close to an hour, but she also hopes that Mik is more just saying that so that they’re able to get to the point which they know they’re both here for. 

When the beer is pushed into her hand, Rosé clinks the neck of the bottle with Mik’s. 

“Cheers”. She grins. 

They take hearty sips from their respective bottles, red lipstick printing wherever Rosé’s lips touch. With each gulp more transfers, and Rosé finds herself not caring when it smudges down to her chin. Because slowly yet suddenly, the glass of the bottle becomes Mik’s lips, and the neck of it becomes her jaw. Glass is now skin and cold is now warm, and Mik tastes of a combination of beer and a want that Rosé feels slinking deep into her gut. 

There’s nothing slow or calm about it. They kiss as messily as they’ve stumbled into this situation, and have their hands wandering, grappling at clothing and slipping beneath hemlines. Mik presses and clicks at each of Rosé’s buttons and Rosé saves them to her mind as perfect pictures of desire, little snap shots that she knows are going to come in handy during regrettably lonely nights on the tour bus. She’ll press her face to the crumpled up pillow as she thinks of Mik’s fingers deftly unzipping her skirt, and will try not to moan when remembering the way mix softbox eyes had looked at her. 

“You’re pretty-”. Mik tells her, Rosé’s skirt dropping to the floor. 

“-I like your hair”. She adds. 

Her fingers pull on one of the curls framing Rosé’s face, and she tugs until it’s stretched straight. She releases it then, a devious smirk on her face, and Rosé doesn’t even have it in her to tell Mik that she’s fucking with her curl pattern. She’d usually make a jibe about not using thirty million products on her hair to calm the frizz for nothing, but as far as she’s concerned right now? Mik could drag her fingers through every single wave and she’d thank her for it. Three times over. 

“Yeah yeah-”. Rosé brushes it off. 

Mik’s hand drops from her hair, moves to the strap of her bralette.

“-Can we get to the damn point?”. 

Mik pulls back enough to laugh, her fingers ghosting beneath lace. 

“Ohhhhh, is she impatient?”. Mik taunts, thumb brushing across Rosé’s nipple. 

Rosé’s jaw snaps shut, and her teeth clench in frustration. Mik’s touches are teasing, subtle enough to work Rosé up but not nearly as present as she wishes they were. There’s an ever growing smirk on Mik’s face too as she presses her body to Rosé’s, and up this close Rosé is able to see as well as feel the outline of her nipple bars through her shirt. Granted Mik isn’t wearing much - just a thin, loose armed tank top - but it has Rosé practically drooling. Her oral fixation is saying _hi_ at the thought of wrapping her lips around the gold bars, looping and licking them with her tongue. 

“You’re hot-”. Rosé asserts. 

“-And I _want you._ Right now”. She grunts. 

At that Mik smirks once again, then grins, then lets out a giggle that makes Rosé press her thighs together. 

“Nice”. Mik sings. 

And then they’re back to kissing.

As the minutes pass, Rosé feels her calves hit the back of the couch, and then Mik’s pushing her down down down until she’s sitting with her spine pressed to the burgundy leather. Even in the summer heat it’s still cool on her skin, and the contrast of it makes her whimper, yelp, shiver. Mik has a hand on either of her thighs, nails scratching faintly across them. They get caught on the criss-cross of Rosé’s fishnets, but it doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest. She looks up at Rosé with her bottom lip nestled between her teeth, and then slowly releases it with a chuckle.

Rosé’s skirt has already risen plenty, but Mik’s hands push it further. She leaves it bunches around Rosé’s waist, and shakes her head when Rosé’s thighs threaten to close in on themselves under Mik’s scrutiny. Mik places kisses, little nips to the skin of them, and Rosé’s breath is catching in her throat. Her eyes drift between Mik, settled on her knees, then up to where the lights are still beaming down on them. They have Rosé squinting and leave little white dots in her vision that double in size whenever she blinks, yet it pales in comparison to the effect Mik is having on her. 

“Spread. Your. Legs”. Mik mutters, spaced out between kisses that creep higher and higher. 

Rosé - for once in her life - does as she’s told. 

She spreads them, as if they move on their own accord, and then lifts her hips. It’s a signal for Mik to hopefully pull her fishnets off and take her underwear with them, but the open mouthed smile that Mik gives her tells Rosé that she has other plans. With a diminutive nod from Rosé, Mik hooks both thumbs into the criss-crosses that cover the growing wet patch on her underwear, and then she pulls. Hard. The sound of the fishnets ripping pierces through Rosé’s lust induced daze, and she’s sure she’d have _something_ to say about it if Mik’s thumb wasn’t already pressing against her clit through the black cotton. 

“You could’ve just taken them off”. Rosé sulks eventually, when the shock of the first touch has worn off. 

“Yeaaaaah _but-_ ”. Mik shrugs. 

She pulls Rosé’s underwear to the side, flickers her blown out pupils back up. 

“-Where’s the fun in that, huh?”. She grins. 

And this time Rosé doesn’t even get a chance to _think_ about what her retort would be, because she’s too busy trying not to lose her mind entirely at the feeling of Mik’s mouth on her. She spreads her tongue out flat to start with, so that Rosé is just able to feel her, and then dips the tip of it into Rosé’s entrance. She gathers the wetness that pools there, and licks up between her folds to her clit. It has Rosé moaning louder than she would like - something in her is telling her not to give Mik the satisfaction - but she hasn’t been this wet in fucking _eons_. 

It’s down her thighs, dripping onto the couch and Mik’s fingers that are now curling inside of her. The noises are as loud as Rosé’s low moans and Mik’s content hums, obscenely sexy and raw. Just listening to the performance that they’re creating together is enough to make her even wetter, but it’s amplified even more by the perfect visual of Mik’s head bobbing up and down, her eyes that are still locked with Rosé’s. Her orgasm builds quickly and steadily, strong and full and Rosé winds her fingers into Mik’s hair to keep her close. 

“Right there-”. Rosé mewls. 

“-A little harder and like - _ah!_ ”. 

Mik chuckles against her, and from then it’s as if Rosé blacks out. 

She registers two fingers becoming three. 

Mik’s lips sucking harder at her clit. 

Nails digging into her ass, scratching and pinching and leaving marks on top of marks. 

“Mik, yes”. Rosé whines. 

It’s so much that when she comes moments later, she’s unable to even pant out a warning. Instead she tightens her fingers in Mik’s hair, knotting at the roots, and clamps her thighs around her head. The moan that she lets out is sacrilegious, and it echoes around the metal walls of the studio, bounces off of the roof and around the softboxes and then back to Rosé’s ears. Mik looks like she appreciates it too, and it’s confirmed when Rosé coaxes her into straddling her thigh. 

“Oh my god, fuck”.

She grinds against it to come just as quickly as Rosé had, and then they’re both nothing but piles of limbs and laughter. Mik pulls a blanket from behind the couch - it’s faux fur, patterned in a tacky leopard print - and drapes it over the both of them. As far as hookups go, it’s one of the more tender endings that Rosé has experienced, and it’s why she simply enjoys the afterglow for what it is; two horny idiots who just happen to vibe with each other beyond the pure act of sex. 

Rosé _has_ to tell the dolls about it. 

“Gorg, the fuck are you doing?”. Mik calls her out on it when she reaches for her phone. 

“Just uh, texting the band”. Rosé admits sheepishly. 

She hooks her leg across Mik’s waist, pulls her closer and into her chest. 

“Are you gonna tell them you fucked the hot photographer?”. Mik smirks. 

Rosé turns to look at her, an incredulous look on her face. She raises both eyebrows and lets her jaw become slack, allows herself to take in the red lipstick prints that are hung on the column of Mik’s neck. Her fingers trail across them as if she’s committing them to memory, and then she beams triumphantly when Mik’s back erupts in a flurry of goosebumps. Rosé makes a point of digging her elbow into Mik’s ribs at the ego that pours from her, but they both know that it’s not because she doesn’t like it. 

“Literally shut up”. 

**Rosé**

_Y’all_

_Get_

_Fuckin_

_READY_

_I have SHIT to tell_

_I’ll be back on the bus in an hour_ _🥵_

They lay like that for a while, trading kisses and pillow talk that shouldn’t be as soft as it is. There’s laughter and a gentle atmosphere as Mik flicks through the pictures that she’d taken on her camera, and commentary from Rosé about ones that she loves as well as ones that she doesn’t as much. There are a few that she makes Mik delete on the spot - a bad angle for her, ones where she’s made a not so pleasant face by accident - but for the most part, she hands the reins over. Mik thanks her for it with a kiss to the freckles on Rosé’s shoulder, and then lets out a final sigh. 

“If you’re ever back in LA-”. Mik softens.

“-Hit a bitch up?”. She asks. 

And Rosé can’t help but smile. 

“You can count on it”. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on Tumblr @ Jancox!


End file.
